


The Antidote to Grief

by Drag0nst0rm



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: First Age, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Post Feanor's Death, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-27
Updated: 2020-03-27
Packaged: 2021-02-28 16:48:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23350465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Drag0nst0rm/pseuds/Drag0nst0rm
Summary: Curufin copes with his losses.He copes poorly, but he copes.
Relationships: Caranthir | Morifinwë & Curufin | Curufinwë
Comments: 8
Kudos: 93
Collections: Feanorian Week 2020





	The Antidote to Grief

**Author's Note:**

> I don't own the Silmarillion.

The first crown he’d ever made had been far from perfect.

He’d had access to all the the wonders of his father’s workshop then, all the tools he could need and the best materials he knew to ask for, and it still hadn’t been enough. He’d only been in the first year of his apprenticeship then, and the result had been predictably lopsided and imperfect.

He’d been out of time to fix it, though. It had been meant as a gift for -

For the only man who could have worn such a crown, then. For the man who had beamed over the gift and worn it out proudly for the rest of the evening, treasuring it as something precious even long after better ones were offered, right up until -

(In the darkness, he had stumbled over something, and his only thought had been terror that he would fall. He hadn’t realized what it was until someone finally managed to light a torch, and he had seen the pale, cold face.)

Presumably, the crown was still somewhere in Aman, gathering dust.

This time, he had none of those advantages. They were still working to set up the forge, and it would be a far cry from what they’d had in Aman even once it was complete.

That didn’t change the fact that this one had to be perfect.

He’d made another. A smaller one, more fit for a prince. The Crown Prince. It had been better. So much better. Perfect gold, wrapped in intricate patterns around rubies that glowed like fire.

There had still been a flaw, almost invisible, but that must have been immediately visible to his - To the recipient’s eyes. His delighted smile had never faltered.

(They had carried him as fast as they could until he ordered them to stop, and Curufinwe would have rather done anything else, because stopping meant he’d had to see - He’d had to acknowledge - )

That one wasn’t gathering dust in Aman. It was somewhere in the trunk of things none of them had yet dared to open.

He hadn’t made another, after. There hadn’t been time. Ideas had come to him, flashed through his mind disjointedly, and promptly been shoved aside. They had seemed glittering in that moment, but when he’d tried to sketch them out, later, he’d thrown the paper into the fire in disgust.

Useless.

Not that it mattered. Not that there would ever be a chance to -

(Maitimo had ridden away with his men. Curufinwe had turned away before he was quite out of sight. Why hadn’t - Why hadn’t he - )

Someone had left food beside him again. He ignored it. He didn’t need food. He didn’t need sleep either, no matter what the voices that came and bothered him kept trying to tell him. He needed to get this right was what he needed, he needed to sketch it out with their precious store of paper and ink so that he could make it right the first time, because history had proven that fixing it later would not be good enough.

He had to make it right.

But none of it looked right. The lines danced before his eyes, and he growled at them. He needed more space, but that useless plate was getting in the way. He’d throw it at the wall if the walls weren’t currently made of canvas. He could throw it at the ground, maybe, and then maybe, finally, finally, he would have enough room and enough patience to get it done, before it was too late, before he ran out of time -

A hand fell down on his shoulder and tugged. “Stop glaring at the food and eat it. Or go to bed. I don’t care which.”

He ignored it. They would go away eventually. They always did, and then he could work in peace.

The arm yanked harder, and he growled warningly.

“Now,” the voice said, and it had the gall to try to take the latest design away.

Curufinwe whirled around and snatched it back, shoving the figure away.

The figure shoved back, and he fell easily, too easily, possibly because the whole tent was spinning, but that wouldn’t stop him from spinning with it and pinning the figure down and punching down, down, down -

Then the world flipped, and he was the one on his back, and it felt like he was shaking, shaking so hard he’d fly apart.

Someone was shouting.

“You don’t get to do this, you don’t get to go away into the dark and disappear, don’t you dare go away in your head like that, _don’t you dare,_ look at me, LOOK AT ME - “

Someone was crying, he realized distantly. Ugly, messy crying.

He thought it might be him.

He let his head fall back to the packed earth and stared up the canvas. He was still shaking, he realized distantly. Still crying.

The noise eased slowly without seeming to have any input from him.

The weight that had been on top of his legs suddenly vanished, and another figure collapsed onto the dirt beside him. He let his head flop to the side.

“Carnistir.” He hadn’t expected that, he realized dimly. Maybe he should have.

Carnistir’s face was even redder than usual.

He was not, Curufinwe realized belatedly, the only one who had been crying.

Carnistir wouldn’t look at him. “Three days of nothing, and that’s what you’ve got to say?”

Cold washed over him. “It hasn’t been three days.”

“It has,” Carnistir said. “You wouldn’t eat. Or sleep. Or talk. You were scaring Tyelpe.”

“So you punched me?”

“You punched me first,” Carnistir reminded him, and he ran a dirt streaked hand over his swollen eyes. “You went all feral over that stupid drawing.”

He looked down. The paper was still in his clenched fist, he realized. He could still see the corner of the picture.

It was nothing but nonsensical lines.

“Makalaure needs a crown,” he said, and it definitely wasn’t an apology. “It has to be perfect this time.”

Carnistir snorted. “Right. Because that will solve all our problems.”

He didn’t reply.

After a too long silence, Carnistir flopped his own head over to look at him, half desperate, half fierce. “You haven’t gone away in your head again, have you?”

“No,” he said shortly.

“Good. Don’t. ‘Cause if you do it again, I’m going to dump you in the lake, and I don’t want to have to carry you that far.”

“Noted.” The ground was surprisingly comfortable, he realized, now that the adrenaline from the fight was fading. And he was so tired.

“And I don’t want to have to explain that to Tyelpe,” Carnistir said, a bit awkwardly. “The you going away bit. Not the lake.”

“I’ll apologize to him,” he tried to say, but it came out as more of a mumble. It might have to wait. He wasn’t sure he could get up right now.

Maybe he could sleep awhile here. Just until the lines stopped dancing around his papers.

And maybe inspiration for the crown would come while he was asleep.

(He woke up still on the ground, but someone had dragged a blanket over him and stuffed a pillow under his head. They had also pinned a note onto the pillow that said in pointedly large letters, _NOW EAT._

Just this once, for Tyelpe’s sake, he told himself, and he went to go do as he was told.)


End file.
